"Miss Havisham, Joe?"
"'She wish,' were Pumblechook's word, 'to speak to you.'" Joe sat and
rolled his eyes at the ceiling.
"Yes, Joe? Go on, please."
"Next day, sir," said Joe, looking at me as if I were a long way off,
"having cleaned myself, I go and I see Miss A."
"Miss A., Joe? Miss Havisham?"
"Which I say, sir," replied Joe, with an air of legal formality, as if
he were making his will, "Miss A., or otherways Havisham. Her expression
air then as follering: 'Mr. Gargery. You air in correspondence with Mr.
Pip?' Having had a letter from you, I were able to say 'I am.' (When
I married your sister, sir, I said 'I will;' and when I answered your
friend, Pip, I said 'I am.') 'Would you tell him, then,' said she, 'that
which Estella has come home and would be glad to see him.'"
I felt my face fire up as I looked at Joe. I hope one remote cause
of its firing may have been my consciousness that if I had known his
errand, I should have given him more encouragement.
"Biddy," pursued Joe, "when I got home and asked her fur to write the
message to you, a little hung back. Biddy says, "I know he will be very
glad to have it by word of mouth, it is holiday time, you want to see
him, go!" I have now concluded, sir," said Joe, rising from his chair,
"and, Pip, I wish you ever well and ever prospering to a greater and a
greater height."
"But you are not going now, Joe?"
"Yes I am," said Joe.
"But you are coming back to dinner, Joe?"
"No I am not," said Joe.
Our eyes met, and all the "ir" melted out of that manly heart as he gave
me his hand.
"Pip, dear old chap, life is made of ever so many partings welded
together, as I may say, and one man's a blacksmith, and one's a
whitesmith, and one's a goldsmith, and one's a coppersmith. Diwisions
among such must come, and must be met as they come. If there's been
any fault at all to-day, it's mine. You and me is not two figures to
be together in London; nor yet anywheres else but what is private, and
beknown, and understood among friends. It ain't that I am proud, but
that I want to be right, as you shall never see me no more in these
clothes. I'm wrong in these clothes. I'm wrong out of the forge, the
kitchen, or off th' meshes. You won't find half so much fault in me if
you think of me in my forge dress, with my hammer in my hand, or even
my pipe. You won't find half so much fault in me if, supposing as you
should ever wish to see me, you come and put your head in at the forge
window and see Joe the blacksmith, there, at the old anvil, in the old
burnt apron, sticking to the old work. I'm awful dull, but I hope I've
beat out something nigh the rights of this at last. And so GOD bless
you, dear old Pip, old chap, GOD bless you!"